I Remember Mark Cohen
by Gema227
Summary: /AU/ Everyone knew that Mark Cohen would die, even himself. But no one saw it coming that he would die first. Whether they like it or not, he’s gone and it’s finally time to tell him what they really thought of him.
1. Let's Set The Scene

**TITLE**: I Remember Mark Cohen  
**AUTHOR**: Gema227

**EMAIL**: Not listing it here, feel free to PM me when ever you like. I don't bite, really.  
**CATEGORY**: Tragedy/Hurt/Comfort  
**PAIRING**: Nothing strictly mentioned, but assumed canon pairings  
**SPOILERS**: Nothing really  
**RATING**: T for language  
**CONTENT WARNINGS**: Character death  
**SUMMARY**: AU. Everyone knew that Mark Cohen would die, even himself. But no one saw it coming that he would die first. Whether they like it or not, he's gone and it's finaly time to tell him what they really thought of him. Angst, character death, a series of character study drabbles  
**STATUS**: 1 of 12 planned chapters  
**ARCHIVE**: Nothing yet  
**DISCLAIMER**: I don't own RENT...yada yada yada…..It belongs to the wonderful Jonathon Larson…yada yada yada……Please don't sue my ass, this is just fanfiction….yada yada yada  
**AUTHOR'S NOTES**: Much love, peace and fruit-baskets to Crazy Homeschooler for the last minute snap-beta. Extreme angst. Enter at own risk. Oh, and if you do, might you leave a teensy, tiny review, even thought this story is tragically over done? Thanks.

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Let's set the scene.

It's an old church, musty and dark. A few lights are on; something tells us that they're the only ones that work. The altar is dilapidated, the marble cracked and dusty. One lone candle is alight on the altar, its flame flickering bravely in the darkness.

The back door of the church opens, the outside light spilling across the pews and illuminated the particles of dust that hang in the air. For the first time, we notice a shape on the altar. It's the shape of a box, a closed casket. It's black, shiny and seemingly out of place in the broken-down atmosphere. Our attention turns back to the door as ten people file in, one right after the other.

It's certainly a motley crew, all different races and ethnicities. But one thing is alike on each of their faces. The expression of deep and profound sadness. These people have lost someone, that much we can tell.

They walk slowly down the center aisle and fill in the first few pews. One of them, a tall lady with short blonde hair, walks up and opens the casket. Glancing down once at the figure inside, she clamps a hand over her mouth and shuts her eyes tight, trying to block away the image. Holding back tears, she returns to her seat.

Close up on the body in the casket. It's a man, a young man, twenty-five if he's a day. His pale blond hair contrasts sharply with the stark whiteness of the coffin padding and his black-rimmed glasses stand out on his insipid complexion. The eyes behind the spectacles are closed and the expression on his face is eerily solemn.

The group shift slowly in their seats, all of them clearly uncomfortable. Out of the silence, a sob pieces the air, high and shrill. Focus swings to a young woman in the front pew, her hand clamped over her bright red lips, trying to contain her horrible, open-mouthed sobs.

"Oh…my…god." She manages to choke out, resting her head on the shoulder of the tall, African-American women next to her.

Everyone else glances at each other uncomfortably, so much to say, but no one wanting to say it. Whether they were ready or not, the time had too quickly come.

It was time to remember Mark Cohen.


	2. Angel

**STATUS**: 2 of 12 planned chapters  
**DISCLAIMER**: I don't own RENT...yada yada yada…..It belongs to the wonderful Jonathon Larson…yada yada yada……Please don't sue my ass, this is just fanfiction….yada yada yada  
**AUTHOR'S NOTES**: Sorry for the late update! Hopefully the next one won't take three months to write. ;). Please read and review, thanks!

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**Angel**

A moment.

Oh, isn't it funny how much can be said in a single, fleeting moment- especially when it is a moment filled with nothing but the unsaid things of the past?

A moment goes by before anyone stands up and when someone does stand up, it's not a big surprise to anyone.

A girl with short black hair and skin the color of coffee, clothed in a simple black dress with teal blue tights on. The flower pinned in her hair is the exact same shade as the tights. She rises, her dress barely ruffling as she stands and her heels clicking on the tile as she makes her way towards the casket. With a sharp movement, she turns and faces the small congregation of people.

"Hi." She begins and it dawns that she is not a girl but a drag queen and a very convincing one at that. "I know that some of you might not know me. I'm Angel, one of Mark's friends."

With a final, almost desperate look at the casket and the young man inside, Angel clears her throat and begins.

"I met Mark on Christmas Eve of 1989. I had fallen deeply in love with one of his best friends, Thomas Collins and Collins was bringing me over to Mark and Roger's loft to meet them. "

One lone tear trailed down her cheek and she closed her eyes, a sob rising in her throat. After a few deep breaths, she continued.

"I'll never forget the look on Roger's face when Collins told them that I was biologically male."

She attempted to imitate it, widening her eyes, her mouth falling open just the tiniest bit. A small, almost undetectable ripple of laughter was heard from a few of the people in the pews.

"Apparently, I'm pretty convincing as a women. Roger was slightly stunned and I expected Mark to react the same way. But…he didn't. I'll never forget it, not as long as I live. Collins told him and he just turned to me and said 'Oh, that's cool. I'm Mark, nice to meet you." As thought he was told stuff like that every day.

We became good friends, Mark and I. He would tell me about how scared he was of watching all his positive friends die right before his eyes; about helping Roger through his withdrawal; about his parents and his sister and how his one wish was to be able to drive home and see his goddaughter, if only for a day."

Her tears were coming faster now, choking her up so that she would have to stop ever few words to take in a shuddering breath. "I loved Mark. We all did. And I'm proud to say that I knew him for what he really was. A friend, a filmmaker and a wonderful, wonderful person."

Her gaze wandered to the casket once again, her lips clamping shut over another sob. "Yes," she whispered, her fingers trailing on the edge of the coffin. 'I'll remember Mark Cohen.


End file.
